I learned to take care of my mother. Years later, I realized I had become her.
Growing up with an alcoholic parent taught me to watch closely, predict problems, and quietly manage every crisis. At the time, I believed I was protecting my mother. However, I was also learning the survival habits that would later shape my own relationship with alcohol.
This is a story about childhood trauma, inherited behavior, and the moment I recognized the cycle of alcohol addiction in my own life.
Learning to Take Care of My Mother
The only elegant thing about my mom was the way she smoked.
She carried an ivory, cracked-leather pouch, carefully stocked by yours truly with Virginia Slims. I lined them up to avoid dents.
The Bic lighter rested on top like a concealed weapon. The leather beneath it had been worn smooth by half a million pulls.
It’s midmorning on the weekend, and she’s driving.
Her long, warlock fingers pull the next victim from the pack. She hammers it upside down against the station wagon’s beige dashboard, sending flecks of tobacco into my lap.
I was 10 or 11.
She brakes, and I lurch forward.
With the precision of a fighter pilot, she pushes in the cigarette lighter, places the cigarette between her lips, flips the turn signal, and changes lanes.
The cigarette hangs there as if by magic, bouncing with the car. Red lipstick bleeds onto the filter, but I never see it fall.
Pop. The glowing orange rings crackle and singe the paper, sending goosebumps across my skin. I know there will be peace in a minute.
That first inhale is my favorite. It seems to last forever. Her lips quiver, and her hand shakes, until they don’t.
She holds the smoke for a moment. Then her body sinks a couple of inches into the seat.
Her exhale is a supernatural release.
Demons be gone.
The station wagon fills with blue haze, as though it is sinking underwater. The smoke stings my eyes until I cry and beg to roll down the window.
Most times, she nods. A few times, she says no.
Once, I ask why.
I never ask again.
The Trips We Took Together
A bump in the front. Another in the back.
I know where we are.
One turn. Two turns. A push in my belly.
She brakes to a crawl and rams the stick into park. We jerk to a stop.
It reminds me of Magnum, P.I., when he would say that every good landing is a crash landing.
She sits there, staring and smoking under the weight of the world. The cigarette is smothered in red, with her lip print etched along the edge.
“You’re my firstborn.”
She bites her lower lip and white-knuckles the steering wheel. We are parked in the farthest space from Albertsons.
She gives my leg a quick pat. It is more for her than for me.
I know it.
A black bead of mascara, wrapped in a tear, rolls down her cheek.
“I need you to be my little man.”
She’s beautiful, especially now. Maybe it is because she needs me, because she is not annoyed by me, or simply because she is crying.
Whatever the reason, I love her.
More mascara makes a run for it.
With those long fingers, she pushes the dying cigarette into a masterpiece of a thousand dead butts inside the station wagon’s ashtray.
It has never been emptied.
The Jenga ashtray enigma.
How many mornings did I sit quietly like a good boy, counting cigarette butts while she gathered the courage to enter the store?
“Agoraphobia,” she says. “That’s what he calls it. Agoraphobia. It’s a fear of going outside.”
I’m not sure she’s talking to me. Still, I pretend to understand.
I’m good at that.
She turns up the radio.
And I’ve tried and I’ve tried. But I haven’t yet. You walk by and I fall to pieces.
Patsy Cline breaks the spell.
Country music grounds her. Dolly Parton, Crystal Gayle, and Willie Nelson.
We roll up the windows, and she kills the engine.
Then it’s go time.
We’re professionals.
Becoming My Mother’s Caretaker
I am the cart retriever and lead driver, navigating the aisles with authority.
I attach her hands to the cart and deliver her to the first stop: the pharmacist.
He knows my mom, so she relaxes slightly while they talk. He opens the bottle for her and places it inside a white bag.
Neither of us can open it.
She looks away and then returns to the cart a little less tense. Whatever he gave her is already in her mouth.
She thinks I didn’t see.
I always see.
Once, I read the label.
“X-an-ax,” I say.
She laughs.
“Like a Z,” she says. “Zan-ax.”
Why does the X sound like a Z?
We are stumped. Another mystery.
At least she feels better.
We never go to the store without buying one of those 2.5-gallon Arrowhead water bottles.
She saw on Channel 4 News that they stored well in case of an earthquake. Therefore, having five or six in the garage made her feel safe.
I love lifting them and showing her how strong I am.
Finally, we reach the vodka. It always comes last, and it confuses me more than anything else in the store.
At school, we practice putting our heads under our desks in case of a nuclear attack from Russia. Russia is our enemy.
Yet here we are, and she is buying Popov with its red and black label and Soviet hammer and sickle.
Is my mom a spy?
Like Xanax, it confuses me for the longest time.
We pass the ice cream and candy. I always ask, even though I know the answer.
We don’t have any money.
That makes me angry, but I never show it.
I have a job to do.
I must take care of her.
The Signs I Learned to Ignore
Checkout is embarrassing.
A traffic jam of carts piles up behind us as she chooses the winners from her white plastic Good Housekeeping box.
Other mothers bump into our cart and sigh loudly while she sorts through hundreds of carefully clipped offers from newspapers and mailers.
Eventually, the checkbook appears, and I feel relieved.
Back at the station wagon, I load the groceries into the rear-facing seat.
It is never folded down, so I must lift each bag and carefully place it into the well. I balance my stomach against the bumper as my feet rise from the ground.
Afterward, I slam the door and return the cart.
My mother insists on that.
Someone has to do it. It might as well be you.
As I skip back toward the station wagon, I see her head slumped against the steering wheel.
She is already passed out.
That is never easy.
When I Realized I Had Become Her
I wake up, and my first thought is drool.
Is that mine? It’s cold.
Peeling my cheek from the hardwood floor, I try to understand where I am. The room is dark, and I am still wearing my clothes.
A book lies across my body.
Why is there a book on me?
Then I hear breathing.
The fog disappears, and shame enters my bloodstream before I can rewrite what happened.
I passed out on the floor of my children’s room.
Adrenaline follows. It is time to assess the damage and leave quietly.
After rolling onto my aching knees, I crawl backward until I reach the doorway.
So far, so good.
Next, I need to know whether my wife is asleep.
I peer around the doorframe and confirm that she is.
Hide your clothes.
Does everything in the house look normal?
Yes.
Crisis averted.
Even so, the experience leaves me tense and wide awake.
There is no way I will be able to sleep.
Halfway through that thought, my hands are inside the liquor cabinet. I pull down what remains of the Tito’s handle I bought two days earlier.
I take three long, lukewarm swigs and chase them with crisp orange juice straight from the carton.
That should do it.
I return to my room and slip beneath the covers. My wife moves.
Immediately, I countermove, disguising it as a sleeping adjustment with a cough and a turn.
Not my first time.
I lie inside my secondary buzz.
It is never as good as the first one of the night. Still, it is enough to make me sleep.
I tell myself that no one saw what happened. Therefore, no one knows, and the game can continue for another day.
Relieved, I take a long breath and sink a couple of inches into the mattress.
Warm and drifting, the truth passes by on a cloud of smoke.
Someone saw what happened.
She always sees.
Proud of her son, she has passed down the same torture she endured. The torture that eventually killed her.
No.
I am not you, Mom.
I’m not.
The last thing I want is to become you.
I laugh, roll over, and close my eyes.
I am exactly like her.
How could I not be?
We are professionals.
Breaking the Cycle of Alcohol Addiction
Recognizing the cycle of alcohol addiction did not erase everything that came before it. However, it gave me the chance to choose a different future.
Today, I am three years sober. I have also lost 75 pounds, started running ultramarathons in my 50s, and built a healthier life around growth and change.
At first, the patterns we inherit can feel impossible to escape. Yet they do not have to determine the rest of our lives.
We may learn how to survive from the people who raised us. Eventually, we can learn a healthier way to live.
About Brian Callaway
Brian Callaway grew up in a broken and traumatic home. His coping strategies worked until they didn’t.
Now three years sober, 75 pounds lighter, and running ultramarathons in his 50s, he writes and coaches about midlife reinvention and health at The Midlife Sherpa.
You can also find his writing on Substack at Brian Callaway, Midlife Sherpa.
Want to be published on Sober.com? If you’re sober and interested in contributing, we’d love to hear from you. Reach out to our newsletter manager here ([email protected]) for submission guidelines. We welcome and celebrate all paths to getting and staying alcohol free.